Sunder
by Melfice
Summary: The bed he wakes in is not his own.  AltairxMalik.


**Sunder**

It is warm.

The sun that hovers persistently over Masayaf beats down through the open windows, bright enough to be a telltale sign that the day is half over, and it bakes slowly across the clean stone. The warmth, the brightness, is a comfortable constant, something that rises and persists predictably every day, and Malik takes solace in it. He cherishes the moments he wakes, early before the rise of the sun, to see the beginnings of light creeping up along the horizon.

Mid-day is noisy, filled with the distant sounds of the market, of the peddlers and hagglers, and the voices and sounds drift unhindered in through the window in a way that is familiar. There is the sound of horse hooves against the ground, the sound of recruits and apprentices in the midst of training, and it is almost as much of a constant as the sun, almost as consistent, and it rolls to the back of Malik's mind in a way that leaves it little more than white noise.

It is much later than he should be waking – far later than he normally rises – and it's annoying and frustrating that all he wants to do is turn over and go right back. There is a dull throb in the back of his mind that is threatening to pull forward, to work its way into his temples, and he thinks that sleep would make it better. Sleep might also help the soreness he feels in his limbs – soreness from the training regimen yesterday, the one he developed himself that is still tiresome, and his body hates him for not being the fourteen year old that had trained in the halls so long ago.

The bed he's laying on – little more than a haphazardly arrayed pile of textiles and pillows – is not his own. It is too disheveled, the room larger than his own; the large, open windows give away his location, because from where he lays it's easy to see the clear blue sky and the view from his own room, in his own bed, is obstructed by a thin tree. The bed is comfortable, comfortable and warm, and he half expects – half hopes – for him to be the only one in it.

Altair is still laying next to him, turned onto his side, back to the windows. His head rests against one of his own arms, eyes turned into the crook of his elbow, and his breathing is even and slow and not at all disturbed by the cacophony of mid-day Masayef. It has taken years for him to fall into this sort of sleep – for him to relax in the presence of another, to relax enough to achieve some semblance of sleep – and it is something he needs. His closed eyes are relaxed, expression calm, mouth parted slightly as he breathes, and there is no tension in his limbs. The sight is different and Malik thinks, absurdly, how he wishes he could hold onto that feeling.

The warmth of the sun is intoxicating, is soothing, and his body feels sore and tired in a way that is easy to blame on the new training regimen, very easy to blame on the wine. It's easy to blame it on the poor choices he hadn't held issue with the night previous, very easy to blame the soreness in his limbs on the way Altair is still learning how to graciously accept and not simply take.

There is a curl of warmth that spreads in his stomach, in his chest, that has nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the blurry memory of the night before.

There had been hesitance in Altair's stance, in his movements and his eyes. There had been lingering glances, made more frequent by the wine, that would have never amounted to anything. It had been painfully easy to read Altair the night previous, stupidly simple to know what he wanted, and it had been frustrating that he had refused to act upon it.

Malik remembers convincing him.

He sits up in bed, his body protesting the entire way. There are bruises he feels but can't see, the bruises he is certain will eventually develop in the shape of the uneven stone – from where it had pressed all along his back - and in the shape of Altair's fingers, curling along his waist, his legs-

Malik inhales sharply, uncomfortably, and curls his hand around his knee to feel some sort of stability in a rare moment where it feels as though it has been taken from him. It lasts for a long, agonizing moment, before his fingers twitch imperceptibly and he reaches out.

Altair's skin is warm from the sun, warm in a way that is different from the air and different from the stone. The sunshine creeps in from above them, shines across his tanned skin and lulls him further into a relaxed state, and his eyes open only slightly when Malik runs his hand along uncovered shoulder blades.

In this moment, perhaps for the first time, there are no off-white bandages contrasting against Altair's skin. There are no open wounds littering his body, no healing marks to be wary of; there is only the constant bruises and scratches he can't seem to live without, brought on by a thousand different things, all of varying sizes and intensities. With the absence of wounds, with the absence of something that would require his attention, Malik also finds himself without any real excuse to be touching Altair at all.

There is a change in his breathing and then Altair stretches, muscles and skin moving underneath Malik's now stationary hand. There is an exhale, slowly, that Malik can feel on his palm. Altair makes no move to get up, only works out sleep-ridden joints and rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers, as though unable to truly wake.

There are nerves in Malik's body that feel strangely tense with him waking, with him lucid, and he tries to will them back to normalcy with little success. He is nervous to be caught this way – to be caught doing something so ill-advised, and he doesn't want to paint such an obvious picture. There is a precious moment given to him to remove his hand, a moment wherein Altair stretches again and his eyes slowly open, and it is a moment that Malik does not take.

"Malik," Altair starts and rolls slowly onto his side. His voice is rough with sleep, the sound of it enough to send an unfamiliar slide of chills down the length of Malik's spine.

The hand on his shoulder blades removes itself out of necessity more than anything, to allow Altair to change positions, but then it settles carefully onto the curve of his hip that his tunic normally keeps covered. The dip there, where he can feel Altair's hipbone through fabric and skin, fits perfectly against his palm. There is heat radiating from Altair's body, heat that Malik wants to absorb, that he wants to sink into, and it curls something pleasurable and frightening in the pit of his stomach.

"You don't remember," Malik says, and he is surprised by the calm in his voice, from the way he sounds distant and unaffected even as he feels angry, even as he feels a thousand things he can't place or name. _You don't remember what you said to me – what you did to me – what you wanted to do._

It is easier to feel the tension in Altair's body, the line of it that makes his muscles stiff, than to see it in his face. Altair's eyes are fixed on him, expression relaxed even when his body is not.

He doesn't move away when Altair sits up, when he moves right into his space, so familiar and yet new enough that the motion of it gives him chills. He remain unmoving, doesn't jerk away or make any motions to, even when Altair leans up and presses his lips against one exposed collarbone. Malik bristles but doesn't pull away – can't with the way Altair is suddenly holding onto his wrist – and a slow flush spreads across his face and chest that he can't stop.

"I think I remember plenty," Altair says, fondly, patient in a way that he has never been, in a way Malik was certain he didn't know how to be. He's still close enough that Malik can feel his lips move against his skin when he speaks. "When my head is not splitting itself in two, I can show you what else I remember."

"You assume much," Malik replies, but there is no real fire behind it.

Altair laughs, lightly, and it forces his expression into something warm and familiar and desirable, does strange things to the beat of Malik's heart that he doesn't care to examine yet.

Altair's mouth on his is not entirely unexpected, not as much as the fingers that curl pleasantly into his hip bones are. They curve there possessively, pull him flush against warm, tanned skin. The movements are not rushed, not aggressive, but they are certain.

Altair's lips are chapped and perfect and warm.


End file.
